Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
His hands slide under my T-shirt and he pulls it over my head. I work my pants down my legs, and he kicks them away. A moment later, I’m molded against him, his mouth on mine, his tongue stroking wickedly into my mouth, even as his hands caress up and down my body. But his mouth doesn’t stay on mine for very long. It travels, and he’s cupping my breasts, licking my nipples, and I’m arching into him, desperate for him in some way I have never felt. He kisses a path to my belly and lingers there, and I have this crazy random moment where I wonder if his child is in my belly that terrifies me and yet—it doesn’t. I think it would terrify him right now, but that thought is driven away when his mouth finds mine again, his body arching over mine, and he is hard in every possible way and place.
He cups my backside, and shifts us back to our sides, the hard length of him settling between my legs, and there is this heavy, sharper need that spikes between us. He responds to it, pressing inside me, stretching me, and then driving hard. I pant and he swallows it, and this time his kiss is all hot demand and possession. This time, we are wild, he is wild, and I taste more than torment. I taste demand. So much demand and then we are rocking and grinding and touching. We can’t get enough of each other and yet we need to find that place that is enough.
I tumble over the edge first, curling into the spasms that overtake me. He holds me close, almost too tight, but not tight enough, and shudders into release. We collapse into each other, and I don’t even think about getting up afterward and neither does he. I want to ask questions. I want to talk to him, but he’s still holding onto me, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll be gone tomorrow. And so, I let him. I want him to. And the peace I find in this is that he’s dealing with whatever this is right here with me. He’s not withdrawing.
And I won’t let him even if he tries.
Chapter sixty
Lori
Iblink into the sunlight of a new day, Saturday I believe, and find Cole standing at the bedroom window, hand pressed to the glass; he’s fully dressed in jeans, his impressive shoulders bunched with tension under snug a T-shirt. I sit up, his big T-shirt that I’d pulled from the suitcase after an early morning run to the bathroom, hugging my body. Throwing away the blankets, I sit up and eye the time, noting the eleven o’clock hour. Cole had been in bed with me, holding me a couple of hours ago. He wouldn’t let go of me all night.
Still feeling hung over from the time change, I stand up and Cole doesn’t turn. It’s odd behavior, but I have no choice other than to make a quick bathroom run, and then as it is also necessary, I brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I try not to think about the fact that I still have not started my period. Cat was right. I’m stressed and there was a time change. I’m not pregnant.
Exiting the bathroom, I’m shocked to find Cole in the exact same position. He hasn’t moved. I hurry toward him and when I’m by his side, I duck under his arm, stepping in front of him, my back against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on his chest.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a rough timbre, but he doesn’t reach for me.
“How are you?”
He reaches up and brushes hair from my eyes, his touch as tender as the look in his eyes. “The question is, how are you?”
I have a momentary flash of that man charging at me that I shove away. Letting that screw with my head isn’t going to help Cole’s state of mind. “Except for worrying about you, I’m fine. What’s going on, Cole?”
“I’m meeting with the ADA handling the attack today and I might talk to your attacker. Roger Adams.”
“The brother of Rachel Adams, the final victim.”
“Yes,” he says, “and he still thinks our client was the killer.”
“He was her college professor, not her killer. The evidence showed it wasn’t him.”
“Agreed, but it’s easy to understand how the victims’ families feel. They thought justice was coming, but justice is not convicting the wrong man. It’s also not attacking the attorney that forces law enforcement to do their job and find the right killer.”
“About that,” I say, taking what feels like an opening that might actually be good for us all. “Cat and I were talking about writing a book on the case, and trying to find the real killer.”